Unrequited
by Behindthebook08
Summary: Few know just how much damage a simple congratulatory letter can do. (Hermione/Minerva) (Hermione/Harry Friendship) (T-rating for language and clinical depression)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A short simple one-shot (Emphasis on the short!) that fluttered into my head this afternoon. Having one of those days, and just couldn't muster the wonderful fluffy'ness which Eighteen Again's most recent chapter requires. Hopefully this will get the angst out of my system. I hope you like it, for what that's worth.**

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Harry walked soundlessly into silent room, treading carefully as not to startle the woman in the far corner. It was nearly eight o'clock at night, and the fact that she had yet to return home, gave testimony to her scattered state-of-mind. She sat with her face completely hidden from view, riotous curls swept in front of her, only blocked from her eyes by the delicate fingers she had set against each temple.

As he approached, he gained a glimpse of the girl. A carefully guarded bit of parchment sat on the desk before her, emerald ink neatly scripted across the page. Her eyes were closed lightly, exhausted circles marring her pale complexion, and a soft frown lay across her face.

"Hermione?" He said softly, but she didn't look up from the parchment, "Hermione, are you alright?"

She shook her head slightly, glancing up at her oldest friend with unfocused eyes, "What? Oh, Harry, yes, I'm—I'm fine."

After 18 years, he knew her every expression and could read her every stutter. He knew of the poison which seemed to radiate through every cell of her advanced mind, and he knew that it was only tampered by the books she kept firmly within her grasp at all times, and the knowledge which she seemed to continually seek.

She quickly swiped her wand across the chestnut desk, banishing the work from her day into a lower drawer. She then picked up the parchment which she'd been reading, carefully stashing it in the pocket of her robes. "What's happened?" He asked quietly, "You seem upset."

"No, no, not at all," She responded automatically, her body still turned away from his and her eyes dutifully avoiding his own. "I'm just slightly surprised by a letter I received today."

It took him a moment to piece together the hints she had thrown his way, but then he looked up at her quickly, his eyes soft and sad, "Oh Hermione, really? Still? It's been nearly a year since she's contacted you."

Hermione shook her head quickly, "I'm aware, Harry. I know how long it's been."

"Why did she write?"

Hermione frowned slightly, "She heard about my completed Charms mastery and wanted to congratulate me. It was just a short note."

Harry reached out, wrapping a soft hand around hers, "I'm sorry Hermione," he said quietly.

She just shook her head again, her eyes glancing towards the ceiling, "It's fine, really. I'm a grown woman at this point; I should have gotten past all of this years ago. It was very kind of her to write."

"Are you going to reply?"

Hermione shook her head quickly, "There wouldn't be a point, she wouldn't respond."

"She might," Harry tried quietly, but Hermione shut him down quickly.

"No Harry—she wouldn't. You and I both know that. It's been nearly 10 years since Hogwarts, 8 since I finished my Transfiguration mastery. I _tried_ to become a friend—I tried to correspond, she didn't _want that._" Hermione ran a shaking hand through her hair, "This ridiculous _crush _is terrible enough, I won't allow myself to become some crazed stalker."

"I think that 12 years makes this a bit more than a _crush_, Hermione. You love her."

Hermione turned towards Harry quickly, her eyes flashing, "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if it's a crush, an obsession, an infatuation, or true _fucking _love. She doesn't feel the same, so it doesn't matter."

"But maybe if you_ told _her…"

"She's a professor, Harry. She was _my_ professor. She is the most respectable woman in the entirety of England, and she will_ never_ look at me that way."

"I'm sorry, I was just trying—"

"I _know_ you're just trying to help, Harry. But you do this _every time _she writes me," Hermione scolded, "That's not helping."

"That's because _every time _she writes, you fall into a spiraling depression which culminates with you crying into a pitcher of firewhiskey at two o'clock in the morning."

Hermione glanced towards her feet, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'm trying Harry, really I am. But you do understand why I can't tell her, don't you?"

Harry nodded lightly, "I just don't feel like anything could hurt at this point."

"I just—I couldn't take that Harry, not now."

He sighed to himself, knowing she was right, knowing what a rejection would do to the brilliant woman's already fragile psyche. Willing some measure of strength to his voice, he pasted on a small smile, "So, you coming home?"

She nodded softly, nervously shuffling papers about her desk, "I've got a few things to finish," she whispered, "I'll be home soon."

Harry nodded, concern evident in his eyes. "If you need anything—"

"I know."

Harry walked slowly from the room, glancing over his shoulder as he left. She had settled back into the desk, a quill gently poised between her fingers and a bottle of sapphire ink laid open before her.

She sighed heavily as she stared at the blank parchment, before setting her quill to it. Penning a letter, like dozens before it, a letter which would never be sent, but which would relieve some of the weight which sat on the young woman's chest.

_My dearest Minerva,_

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**Thank you for reading, and please consider shooting me a review to tell me what you thought.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alright ya relentless Harpies, it's continuing. Happy now? Seriously though, thank you so much for all of the positive feedback, and desperate pleas for a continuation. I hope you enjoy the rest of this as much as I am enjoying writing it. I'm putting a large portion of my soul into this piece, and I can only hope that it will shine. I don't expect that this fic will be incredibly long, but we'll see where it leads. **

**Thank you to the glorious CherriiMarina who helped me read through this, and inspires me endlessly.**

**Disclaimer: The characters or Rowling's, but the emotions are all my own.**

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Harry grimaced as his alarm clock began blaring from the dresser, and waved a hand towards it, silencing it in a gesture. The point of putting the small muggle contraption on the other side of the room had been to encourage his quick departure from bed—all that it had really accomplished was his improved aptitude for wandless silencing spells.

_I suppose I should appreciate the little victories,_ he thought, rolling onto his back. A slight headache pounded behind his eyes. Why was he so tired?

Sitting up with a groan, he suddenly remembered—Hermione. He perked up his ears, hoping to hear her usual morning routine in progress across the hall, but frowned when he didn't hear the careful sound of a muggle toothbrush scraping against perfectly cared for teeth. Hermione was always perfectly punctual, and if she wasn't in the bathroom brushing at 8:30, you could safely assume she wasn't home at all.

He quickly sprang into action, dashing across the room to hastily pull on his work clothes. Hermione would undoubtedly comment on the haphazard appearance, but she would have far more to say if he let her sleep through work. And if he knew anything about her usual actions after a letter from Minerva, she was likely unconscious at the moment—hopefully still in her office.

As soon as his feet hit the front doorstep he disapparated, landing with a spin in the middle of her office. "Hermione?" he said quietly, looking around. As he suspected, he found her lying out on a transfigured couch next to the fire, her hair a frizzed mess around her face, and a pool of saliva gathering on the arm she was using as a pillow. Three bottles of firewhiskey sat empty next to her—Harry frowned again, that was worse than usual.

He conjured up his patronus, and using a handy spell Hermione had invented (and cleverly refrained from sharing with the general public), he shifted its appearance from his usual stag to a playful otter. Shifting the tone of voice as well, he gave it a brief message, _"I'm so sorry, Sir, but I've found myself quite ill this morning, and I won't be able to come in today. Don't worry, my work will be more than made up for tomorrow. – Hermione." _He sent the message away towards her supervisor. She wouldn't be pleased that he called her in sick again, but there was no way Hermione was waking up any time soon.

He moved closer to his best friend, sighing as he did so. He worried for her so much, and he wished there was a way to help her. He had been caring for her since just following the war, and he couldn't deny that he was exhausted. He wanted her to feel better, to find that spark in her eyes again, to seek some real help—but she wouldn't. Still, he wouldn't abandon her, and very few people understood that. Ron had abandoned them both, frustrated with Harry's constant lack of attention, and Hermione's _"silly moping"_, Ginny had easily dumped him after a year of dating, believing that he was more in love with Hermione than her. Even Hermione's parents had given up hope on their only daughter. Everyone just thought she needed to snap out of it, and stop feeling sorry for herself.

He shook his head. Smart people could be so stupid sometimes.

Nonetheless, that left it to him. He watched her, he cared for her, and he covered for her. But that didn't mean he enjoyed it. He wanted a normal life for both of them. He wanted to find someone to have a family with, he wanted her to smile again—he wanted so many things. But more than anything, he wanted her to be happy again.

He cleaned up silently, picking up the bottles and disposing of them, clearing away the crumpled papers and spilled ink. Under it all, he found one piece of parchment entirely clean and uncrumpled. Curious, he inspected it closer—he had given up all pretenses of respecting her privacy after helping her to abandon her Dreamless Sleep addiction. Once you spend hours rifling through someone's belongings, searching out addictive potions, you really don't worry too much about reading the occasional bit of parchment.

Upon reading the first line of careful script, he knew what it was, and knew that he should set it back down. It was private. Not a suicide note, not a letter looking to purchase more potions, not something for work. Nothing that involved him. He should set down the letter and allow Hermione to dispose of it as she saw fit.

But he didn't.

Instead he glanced back at his sleeping friend, sighed heavily, and sat down on the edge of her couch, peering closely at the letter.

_My Dearest Minerva,_

_It shouldn't surprise you, receiving this letter. If you're receiving it, I can only assume you've received all the rest—that the flames meant to destroy my words actually brought them to you. For that, I should be grateful; the flames have proven themselves more Gryffindor than I have ever been._

_You must be well aware of how much I care for you. How much I've always cared for you. How, despite our difference in age and intellect, I have studied you as I have my most treasured of books—carefully, subtly, and adoringly. _

_I have watched, bewitched, as a strand of ebony hair fell from the carefully sculpted knot which you prefer when amongst your students, and I have felt a deep glowing in my soul to see those same locks freely cascading down your back in the late evening. I have appreciated your affinity for muggle mystery novels and I have smirked as you carefully concealed them within stacks of academic tomes and graded papers. I have seen your hidden smile when Severus spits an especially witty insult in your direction, and spent hours replaying your clever comebacks through my mind. I have seen your eyes alight with passion when a struggling student manages a complicated enchantment, and I have watched the loathing seep from your eyes when that same student is harangued by his peers._

_I have seen _you_ Minerva—every bit of your soul—and I do hope that hasn't frightened you._

_Despite how I have seen you, and how I have known and loved you— I must beg a tremendous favor from you. I must ask, with all the love I can withstand, that you not write me again—not ever. Because with each casual congratulatory letter that flies through my window, a piece of me dies, knowing I will never receive the type of communication I truly require to sustain me. I will never be allowed access to the deepest recesses of your soul—nor will I wander among the shallow waters of your friendship. I shall always be a student of whom you are proud—and that is something glorious to be—but it does not temper the pain which accosts my heart with your every cordial articulation. _

_I know that you will never love me, and how could you when I am so ill-equipped as to even find a love for myself? But despite your lack of affection, I will eternally love you, and I will not forget that from the loss of the occasional letter, but my greatest hope is that I can perhaps dull the pain enough to survive a while longer. Enough to relieve my friends of the suffering that I bear so terribly, and save me from my own darkest of demons._

_I'm sorry to burden you with such a request, and sorry to hurt you with my improper tongue, but I ask for your forgiveness. I'm simply a victim of my own withering heart, and requesting an end to the precious poison which fills it._

_With all the love which a heart may contain, I am yours._

_Hermione_

As he read the name that was almost as familiar as his own, Harry felt a tear drifting lazily down his cheek. He flicked it away, rolling his eyes at the cliché of a single teardrop—though it did seem oddly fitting in this moment.

He had always known she loved her. Hermione had glowed whenever she was in the presence of their former head of house, even as a first year it was obvious the esteem that Hermione held for the older witch. But frankly, he had always thought that her love for their professor was slightly less complete than this. An average student crush combined with a fair bit of admiration and hero worship—add in several years apart, and a good dose of bipolar disorder—well, he couldn't really be blamed for having his doubts. But this? This was something else entirely.

Hermione was right, this was an honest love. There was obviously no deep-seated motives behind Hermione's beautiful words, it was an honest plea. A desperate hope for peace after years of anguish. Harry sniffled slightly, embarrassed for himself, but unable to contain the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

What was he supposed to do with _this_? He couldn't just leave her.

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples hopelessly. He knew what the best option was. There was one person who knew Hermione better than anyone other than him. One person who understood her, and who understood the illness which overtook her mind so much of the time.

It had been so many years since he'd spoken with her, since she'd saved him from his own demons and forced him to seek real treatment for the difficulties which had plagued him. His trouble had been easier than some, at least that was his guess; the result of environmental difficulty, rather than chemical imbalances. But she had still seen it, and had confided in him. _"None of us are whole, Potter. But if we are to find happiness in this world, and find love, we must first learn to love and care for ourselves. Until we can do that, we're useless to those around us."_

The words had resonated with him, had shaken him to his core. All he had ever wanted to do was protect and help the ones he loved. If he couldn't do that—he was useless. So he had fought back. He had found people to talk to, discovered ways to cope with the reality of his life. With that one sentence, and an owl to a former student, she had saved him.

He had refrained from contacting her before now out of respect for Hermione, but things were reaching a point that he was afraid of. He was honestly concerned that she wouldn't survive much longer, and even if it meant a betrayal of her trust—he couldn't let her fade away into nothing.

If Hermione was going to be saved, there was only one person who could be relied upon to do that.

"She's going to hate me," he whispered to himself, grabbing Hermione's quill and a spare piece of parchment.

_Dear Minerva,_

_The attached letter will come as a shock to you—but please see through the initial discomfort. I need your help, and so does she. I don't know where else to turn, she's been sick for far too long._

_ Please, tell me what to do._

_ Harry_

His desperation was evident in the words he used, but we didn't care about his pride at this point. She _had _to understand, had to see past the unavoidable discomfort of the letter. He tied up the pieces of parchment quickly, charming his to be opened first, and approached Hermione's owl, who sat solemnly in the corner.

"Artemis," he said softly, "I know you won't want to deliver this. It will feel like a betrayal to your Hermione. But please, trust me. This has to happen."

The owl looked at him sternly, obviously taking a moment to pass judgment, but in the end it held out its leg to him, and gave the slightest of hoots.

As she took off through the window, Harry glanced back to his sleeping friend. He was going to make this better—one way or the other.

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**Please, please, please, shoot me a review. I'm absolutely dying to know what you all think of this, and not at all above begging on this one.**


	3. Chapter 3

_"It is a miserable thing how  
I cannot seem to fall in love  
with myself. Selfish as it may sound  
coming from my own clumsy tongue,  
but that is where romance starts,  
isn't it? Inside ones own soul?  
Rippling out from bones to every  
piece of skin one has had trouble  
falling in love with?_

_We have blemishes and we carry scars.  
We are tarnished, tainted, and decorated  
with filth; but beneath the dust, the  
dirt, there lives always diamonds,  
and behind the cloudy night,  
lives always, a sea of endless  
stars." _

Hermione stared blankly at the words in front of her, the beautifully scripted poetry that told her to find love inside herself. The emerald green ink, that reminded her of only one woman—but which couldn't indicate her to be the sender. Hermione knew better than to assume that.

Still—the words were beautiful, no matter who had sent them. Attached to the parchment was a small business card.

Eleanor Michaelson  
Therapist for Magic and Muggle Alike.  
"It's time to start living again."

Hermione frowned at the little card—a therapist? She didn't need a therapist! She needed a new life, and perhaps a drink—but certainly not a therapist. Noticing a small speck of green that had bled through, she flipped the card over, finding another small note from the sender. "How can we hope to be loved, until we can find love for ourselves?"

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed at the sentence. Who was this person?

* * *

Emptiness closed in, suffocating her with its relentless energy as she listened to the pulsating silence which filled the house, and allowed swollen tears to stain her favorite camisole. A headache pounded into existence as she cried—cried for the loss of her childhood, for the torture she had suffered, and for the poison which seemed to continually seep into her consciousness. The ache and the angst thrummed so painfully against her scalp that she screamed desperately into the emptiness, her lungs burning from the effort.

She was alone, and that was seldom a good thing.

Harry rarely accepted away missions, something which severely stilted his career, and which he pretended had nothing to do with her. But every now and then, he was given an assignment which was nonnegotiable, not if he wanted to continue his work as an Auror.

She understood, she always understood—but that didn't stop the demons from frolicking freely the moment his calming presence disappeared. They danced around her, rejoicing at the tearful noises which leaked from her lips and provoking all the negativity they could contain.

That's why she huddled in the corner, trying to ignore the cries of insanity, trying to survive until Harry came back.

A knock on her window startled her from her thoughts and she screamed out—but the shock had brought her back to herself, if only momentarily. She stood on shaking feet, ignoring the unpleasant quivering in her legs as she approached the window and opened it silently, allowing the owl access to her room.

Landing deftly on her desk, he made a soft noise before holding out a leg. Untying the parchment, she watched as he took back off out the window, sweeping quickly out of sight. Glancing down at slip in her hand she was surprised to see a note in the same green ink and script as several weeks before.

"_You're not insane darling; you're just fighting stronger demons than anyone else. Don't let them win—please, don't let them win."_

On the other side of the parchment was the same contact information for the therapist. Something in her broke, reading the well-intentioned words scripted so plainly. Whoever this person was, they knew of her struggle, and they were virtually begging her not to give up.

And yet, as she reread those words, "_Please, don't let them win," _all she could think was, _if only I could_. If she knew how to surrender to the spiteful demons that overtook her she would in an instant. She would gladly give in to their seduction and disappear into that peaceful blackness forever. But it wasn't so simple, because somewhere in her there was still that nagging reminder, _Harry._

She couldn't leave Harry—but damn it all if she didn't want to. Hermione crumpled to the floor again, sobbing painfully into her arms. "I can't do this anymore," she cried to the empty room. "I'm not strong enough."

As the helpless words shook her emaciated body, she felt a warm breeze cross her and looked up towards her window. Sitting on the sill, tail twitching cheerfully, was a glowing patronus feline. He seemed to gently appraise Hermione before slipping out of the window and onto the floor beside her. He rubbed his face lightly against her leg, a light purring filling the room.

With the soft noises also came a certain calmness, slowly entering her body and swirling within her veins. It didn't completely eliminate the fear and unhappiness, but it seemed to momentarily quiet the poison.

"Who sent you?" Hermione whispered brokenly, but the cat just curled up on her lap, purring gently and scaring away the demons which had been overwhelming her only moments before. It nudged her hand slightly, the one holding the parchment. "The person who has been sending these notes? They sent you?"

_Meow._

Hermione looked carefully at the creature, her academic side getting the best of her. She hadn't known that patronuses could act like this. Carrying messages was one thing, but this cat was fully interacting with her. Hermione shook her head slightly, should could research later, at the moment there was something she needed to make dreadfully clear to the cat and it's sender. "I'm not calling this woman," she told the cat firmly, pointing to the note in her hand, "While I appreciate the intention, I'm handling things well enough on my own and feel no need to seek any sort of professional assistance."

The friendly specter seemed to quirk a furry eyebrow before growling lowly, leaping from her lap, and slinking to the other side of the room. He settled down in the opposite corner and glared at her for a moment.

Hermione didn't realize just how much the patronus had helped her until it walked away, and she felt a sudden chill infect her, causing her to shiver from the suddenness. As if she had imagined the whole moment of peace, the poison overtook her, bringing with it all of the traitorous thoughts and the whistling silence.

"No, no, no," she moaned, "I was calm—I was okay."

_Meow_

She opened her bloodshot eyes, seeing the cat still watching her stubbornly, and she found herself suddenly realizing that Patronuses must not just frighten away Dementors, but also help to heal those nearby.

"A living representation of an anti-depressant," she muttered to herself, quivering slightly. "How did you get here though? How did your caster know that this is what I needed?"

_Meow_

"Please," Hermione whispered, her voice cracking at the end. "Please come back—help me get through this bit. Please."

The cat approached cautiously, stopping just before touching Hermione, and it glanced pointedly at the parchment still clutched in her hand. Hermione groaned pitifully, "Fine you stupid stray, I'll call her. I'll call her."

_Meow_

The cat leapt back onto her lap, and curled itself up in her lap, purring contentedly; she hadn't even realized that patronuses were capable of communicating like this, or for such a prolonged span of time. Whoever had sent her this patronus must be powerful and brilliant—and they must really care.

* * *

Hermione shut the door silently behind her, leaning her weight against it and breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't woken Harry. It was late—later than she should be coming home, certainly. After the appointment, she hadn't had any urge to return home right away, and spent several hours wandering the streets of London as she cleared her mind. When she realized the time, she had worried that Harry would be up waiting for her, but thankfully he must have fallen asleep.

She moved numbly to the couch in their sitting room, and lay down heavily, staring blankly into the fire. Despite the hours of wandering, she hadn't actually managed to calm herself before coming home. She sniffled quietly as the tears fell from her eyes and she allowed herself a moment of graceless grief.

Today had been her first appointment with Eleanor Michaelson, and it had left her emotional drained.

Hermione had thought it would be a simple visit, one hour, brief introductions, and maybe a plan of action. Much like the first day of a new class—nothing overly serious would happen until the second meeting. What she hadn't expected was for the petite woman to sit her down and immediately demand her full story. _"I can't help you unless I know you," _She had said firmly, _"So tell me what I need to know_."

Hermione didn't know what had made her give in to the demand—goodness knows she wasn't usually willing to spill all of her secrets to random strangers. Yet something about the cramped office, walled with overstuffed bookshelves, had calmed Hermione, and something about the petite brunette with the dark eyes and thick rimmed glasses had made Hermione feel safe.

It probably didn't hurt that this woman knew Hermione's mysterious letter writer—the letter writer who wrote her another note that very morning.

"_Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light." – As daft as Albus Dumbledore could be, he was extremely quotable, wasn't he? You can do this Hermione—you have the strength, and she is the light switch you've been searching for._

With that thought in mind, Hermione had met Eleanor and finally let her secrets go—something she was currently regretting deeply.

A complete stranger—she had told _everything_ to a complete stranger! She had kept the poor woman for nearly four hours, just babbling on about every important moment that she could remember, every self-diagnosed illness, and every issue that Harry had told her should someday be addressed.

Everything.

And with the confessions had come an immediate relief, and a smile. She had felt several moments of completely weightlessness, all leading up to the inevitable crash. And crashed she had. She now laid out on the couch, nearly drowning in her own tears and unable to find a single decent thought in her mind. There was no hope, no silver lining—nothing. Just blackness and pain and hate.

So she cried, and she didn't regret the tears this time, she just let them fall. Hours ticked by, and yet she didn't move from her frozen tear stained position, simply listening to the pattering rain outside and the screaming anguish in her heart.

A bright flash of light and a spiraling piece of flame-licked parchment appeared before her, causing her to groan and close her eyes—she didn't want any damnable words of encouragement tonight, she just wanted to be left alone to cry.

As she allowed the darkness to surround her, she felt the lightest tickle against her nose and sighed audibly, flicking her hand in displeasure. But the tickle returned and she opened her eyes again, glaring at the offensive scrap.

"Fine," she grumbled, wrapping her hand around the bit of paper. "I hope you're happy," she snapped to the invisible force."

_There is nothing wrong with crying, but there must always be a time to stop. Dry your face, and go outside. Remember that night, in your third year, when I saw you outside in the dark doing pirouettes in the rain. Be that woman again._

Hermione frowned at the glimmering ink, eyebrows furrowed. _Absolutely not, _she thought to herself. Certainly, she remembered that night all those years ago, but she had no intention of recreating it.

She was fourteen years old at the time, and had been using the time turner for several months. The stress was starting to gnaw at her and after another night crying, she found that she was rather furious with herself. She wasn't the sort of woman who spent her nights crying in bed, full of self-pity—she wouldn't be that person! With that realization, she had hurried impulsively through the halls of Hogwarts, feeling an uncontrollable need for fresh air.

Reaching the front doors she had found herself undaunted by the heavy rainfall, instead defying her tears and rule-abiding tendencies, she danced in the rain. She had practiced the ballet moves that had seemed so incredibly important before Hogwarts and had moved gracefully in the rain, not sparing a moment to consider her rain drenched clothes or the late hour.

In that moment she had felt whole, alive, and perfect.

She didn't know how this writer knew about that moment, because she hadn't told anyone about it, not ever. But no matter what they knew of the moment—she wasn't that girl anymore. She was different, and she was hurt, and she couldn't dance in the rain anymore.

_But you're not this sort of woman_, a voice whispered in her ear, causing her to groan. "Well apparently I am, seeing as I spend most of my nights crying these days," she whispered to herself.

_You could change that_, the voice responded knowingly, and Hermione cringed. "I can't."

_You must—how can you hope to survive this life, if you forget how to dance in it?_

It was ridiculous—and she knew it. She was twenty-eight years old. Twenty-eight year old war heroes don't go off dancing in rain storms—they don't!

_But you're already known as crazy—aren't you?_

Every now and then the spontaneity of bipolar was a blessing, forcing her to take action—to believe in something. This was one of those times. Suddenly, she was out of her seat and hurrying for the door, that same impulsiveness from her youth taking a grip on her heart yet again, pulling her towards the cleansing power of the rain. The voice was right—she was already crazy, so why the hell did she care what anyone else thought of her? And besides, she reasoned, her writer had told her to, and she trusted whoever this person was. She trusted them completely, however unhealthy that might be, and if they told her to go dance in the rain—dammit, she was going to dance in the rain.

She left the door swinging open behind her as she stumbled into the street and she shivered slightly as the first drops hit her skin.

Spinning in place she tried to press down the darkness which had overwhelmed her all evening, tried to find that girl she had been, and for a moment she won. She wasn't perfect and she wasn't quite whole—but she existed, and that was something.

Raindrops soaked through her hair and slid across her skin and she felt a laugh bubble up from her core. Yes—she certainly existed.

And in that moment, she was so unconcerned with the rest of her universe, that she didn't even notice the concerned face of her best friend in the window above, as he carefully sculpted his patronus, telling it clearly, "You were right, she's listened to your note. If she gets pneumonia, _you're _going to be the one making her soup."

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**A/N: Thank you so much for continuing to read and review. I'm sorry updates are slow coming on this story. Unlike in my other stories, I don't have chapters prewritten for this one, so their coming as I write and edit them. It's a tough story to write, and I really have to be in the right mindset to handle it. Still, I hope that I haven't disappointed you all, and I hope you are enjoying.**

**Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: What's this? Two updates in in two days?! What was I saying about taking to long between updates? Your reviews inspired me, as did a the fabulous Raspberry Mocha Latte I inhaled earlier. Get me coffee, and I always write!**

* * *

The circular office glowed brightly in the late hour as the silver stag stood stiffly in the middle of the room. Always serious, always strong—Minerva supposed that something could be said about that, psychologically speaking. Her own patronus was usually rather snarky in nature. Harry's familiar voice filled the room, _"You were right, she's listened to your note. If she gets pneumonia, you're going to be the one making her soup."_

Minerva smiled stiffly, acknowledging Harry's attempt at lightening her mood but not quite succumbing. A slight relief filled her chest, and she was thankful to know that Hermione had listened to her again—she should be bothered by the hold her notes were already having on the young witch, but she couldn't quite find it in herself. She was just grateful that they were working, however slightly.

When she had received the initial note from Harry, and the attached letter from Hermione, she had nearly fainted from shock. Surely, if she was the sort to faint, she would have found herself unconscious on her office floor. Instead, she had sat stiffly and wide eyed, staring at the tragically beautiful words so elegantly scripted, and she hadn't moved for nearly four hours. Poppy had found her like that shortly after dinner, having been concerned when the headmistress didn't appear in her usual place at the head table.

Minerva had waved her off, claiming to have gotten caught up in her work, but as soon as her old friend left she poured herself a healthy helping of whiskey and resumed her place at the desk. The idea for the first letter had come to her so effortlessly. Anonymity was obvious, but she still had to send some sort of comfort to the girl. She had done so without consulting Harry, and when he heard—well, they're friendship had certainly shifted that day.

He had stormed into her office, eyes blazing and fists clenched fiercely. Gone was the polite respect and close confidence they had shared for so many years—in front of her stood an infuriated grown man, unafraid of his formidable former professor. She was a clever enough witch that she knew not to mention how much like his younger self he seemed in that moment, all emotion and fury—none of the logic which he had perfected over the last years. It was nearly an hour that he shouted before allowing her to speak. He had told her of Hermione's initial paranoia and explosive reaction to the letter, about her years of mental turmoil, and of his need of her _help_. He was quite clear on that final matter. He wasn't looking for an intervention from their former professor—he was looking for guidance and teamwork in saving his best friend, and she had failed in that matter.

He seemed surprised when she apologized so genuinely, surprised that she was willing to admit to her mistake. But the error was obvious, and she was embarrassed to admit the role which that whiskey had played in her decision. Had she waited until morning, writing to Harry would have been the obvious initial reaction, but she had allowed her shock and alcohol to cloud her judgment.

After Harry accepted her apology, and allowed himself to calm enough to accept her offer of tea, they had developed a plan—a plan which he didn't _like, _but did agree to. He acted as her spy, he told her what Hermione was up to and whether or not she had read and responded to her letters. When he wasn't available, she sent her patronus or occasionally begged the assistance of a portrait. She didn't feel entirely right about watching the young woman so carefully—but she wasn't willing to let Hermione destroy herself, she couldn't do that. So she watched.

She watched as the girl she had admired for so long tore herself to shreds and drank herself into oblivion. She watched as she worked obscene hours and screamed through her sleep. She watched—but did not act. She gathered information and perfected her plan—she used the parts of her mind which the Sorting Hat had implied would serve her well in the House of Rowena, and she had exercised more patience than any Gryffindor had ever been believed capable.

It wasn't until nearly three weeks later that Minerva found herself moved into action again. She hadn't been sure of how to proceed, but when Harry left town for several days, Minerva knew she had to act. She watched through the eyes of her patronus, performing magic that few others knew possible, and she comforted the girl in her own way. She protected her, saved her, and manipulated her to an extent that would have made Salazar Slytherin himself proud. The following morning, when Eleanor owled to confirm Hermione's appointment, Minerva knew that her efforts and manipulation had been worth it. Finally, Hermione was making some strides to help herself.

_Finally_.

Harry had been incredibly close to tears when he found out, thanking Minerva from the depths of his soul. He had feared that she would never seek the help needed.

Since then she has sent several letters of encouragement, small notes of appreciation, strength, and courage. Quotes from books and authors that she knew Hermione appreciated. Anything to bring some small flicker of survival to the shattered woman. Now, tonight, she had intervened again. Harry had told her that Hermione hadn't come home from her appointment, and Minerva had sent her Patronus to watch the girl again.

It wasn't until after Hermione had returned home that Minerva grew truly concerned, watching the brilliant witch crumble into her own despair once more. The charred parchment was a trick she had learned from Albus many years before, and knew would effectively gain her attention—but she didn't know if Hermione would listen this time. In fact, she was fairly sure that this could be the breaking point in their correspondence, that Hermione would realize her identity and refuse.

But she hadn't.

Minerva leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a deep sigh of relief. The rain was good for Hermione, and it always had been. In her short note, she had admitted to seeing Hermione's spontaneous thunderstorm ballet all those years ago—but she hadn't admitted to all of the other times she had watched Hermione in the rain. It was something that so obviously recharged her, and it was honestly beautiful to behold.

As a student, Hermione knew so much of the Hogwarts castle—but not all of its secrets were held within the pages of _Hogwarts, A History_. Hermione didn't know, for instance, of the alert which was sent to the Head of House of any student whom ventured outside of the castle after hours. Minerva had watched her prized pupil dozens of times as she shed Harry's cloak and allowed herself to get lost in the rain. She would dance, or walk, or sometimes just lay herself out plainly. She would allow the water to drench her clothing and skin and hair, dowsing her so thoroughly that she practically appeared as an impressionist painting by the time she wandered back into the castle.

And yet Minerva never found it in her heart to stop her student. She knew that she should have found the girl and taken away points. She should have given her detention and thoroughly chastised her for the behavior—but she didn't. Hermione, more than any other student, needed to have a way to release her stress. And if the late night excursions were the best way for her to do that, Minerva wouldn't be the one to stop her. Instead she would watch her, and protect her, and ensure that the young witch came to no harm.

Knowing that Hermione had followed her instructions, Minerva felt a deep sense of relief and knew that Hermione would soon sleep restfully, but she also knew that her unavoidable reveal was coming closer. Hermione was clever—far more than clever—and she wouldn't be blinded by her own lack of self-worth for long. So far, Minerva had been able to rely on Hermione's inability to believe that Minerva could ever care for her as more than a student. Even friendship seemed far outside Hermione's realm of belief, and that was the weakness which Minerva had exploited. But soon—soon Hermione would have a good day, and she would think of the letters and it would all become clear to her. And she would hate her.

* * *

Harry tiredly opened the front door, calling out into the house, "Hermione, I'm home!"

Usually this statement received one of three responses: the lilting hum which indicated that Hermione had heard him but was currently engulfed in a particularly fascinating book and couldn't be bothered to answer, the shaky "Hello Harry" which suggested a bad day, or the warm "Harry" as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. The last one was his favorite—it felt like home, and told him that she was having a good day.

But today—today there was only silence, and that was a terrifying noise for Harry Potter. "Hermione?" he called again, listening carefully as he fingered his wand and looked for any sign of disturbance in the house.

Walking carefully towards the kitchen he noticed broken glass scattered in various places; a broken mirror, a shattered window, a lightbulb which had exploded—none of which had been cleaned up. A deep fear began to take root in his heart, and he walked more carefully and quickly through the house.

The entryway was empty, the living room was empty, the stair case was empty—the kitchen.

The kitchen was not empty.

At the table sat Hermione, surrounded by pieces of parchment, emerald ink reflecting from her eyes as her hair sparked and curled dangerously around her, unkempt magic crackling in the air. "Why didn't you tell me," she whispered; her voice cold and numb.

He shivered slightly, "I couldn't. She asked me not to." There was no denial; that would have been useless. He had never been able to lie to Hermione, she was far to intelligent for that—no, he had always known that once she found the truth, there would be no hiding from it.

Frigid anger burned in her eyes as she looked at him, "You know, when I woke up that morning, I just assumed I had burned the letter like all the rest. I didn't remember doing it, but admittedly, I had drunk quite a bit. I just assumed I had blacked out near the end. I _never _would have guessed that you could have—_never_."

Harry's voice cracked weakly as he answered her, and he only barely managed to keep his own tears at bay. "I had to do something Hermione—I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you, but I had to find someone to help, and I didn't know who else."

"Anyone else!" She hissed, "Absolutely anyone else."

"How did you find out?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and gave off a stilted barking laugh, so different from the kind stumbling laugh he was so accustomed to. "You weren't exactly _stealthy_. All I had to do was look, Harry—open my damn eyes. I was having a bad day—a really bad day—and I thought some of her words might help me pull through." Hermione laughed darkly again, glancing back down at the pile of parchment in her hands, "I've come to rely on the damned things to get me through these spells. As soon as I read through them all, I knew. The ink was enough of a giveaway, and the handwriting. As if after all these years I don't know her handwriting better than my own?"

"Are—are you okay?" He asked warily, completely incapable of reading her current mood.

"Not even slightly," she growled, standing quickly from the table and sending the chair tumbling against the floor. She took the rest of the letters in her hand, and started from the room. "I strongly suggest that you leave me the _fuck_ alone Harry Potter." She walked past him, out the door way of the kitchen, and he could hear the glass crunching under her feet as she made her way to the front door.

"Hermione wait!" He shouted, running after her and taking ahold of her arm. "You can't go."

She turned back to him, and with all the force she could muster she hit him, making his head snap raggedly to the right. "I can do whatever the hell I want, Harry James Potter."

"Hermione, think about this rationally—It's late, and this is your home—you don't have anywhere to go. We've got to fix this."

She shoved him, hard, "I don't have to fix anything," she growled. "How about you call up _Minerva_ and you two can fix it together."

"Hermione—"

"NO!" she thundered, "You don't get to speak now, Harry. You are supposed to be my best friend—you're the _only _person whom I can trust—and you broke that!"

Tears were cascading down her cheeks at this point, and he could feel his own heart breaking at the shattered look on her face. "Hermione, I was just trying to help."

"Because it's always your job to _help_ isn't it Harry. You can't ever let people well enough alone to deal with their own problems. Well—a fine help you were here. _Do I look better._" She bit, "Better yet—is Sirius better for your _help_? Or Dobby? Or Cedric?"

Harry stepped back, "That's—that's not fair. This isn't you, Hermione. You don't—"

"Don't what? Tell the truth?" She snapped, laughing falsely. "Here's some truth for you, Potter, since you're so keen on _sharing_ recently. I'm entirely insane and you were sick of dealing with that. So you found me when I was unconscious, stole a letter from me that contained my most precious secret, and mailed it to Minerva McGonagall—hoping that she could somehow magically fix it, because Dumbledore gave you this twisted idea that love can solve anything. Unfortunately, Minerva will _never_ love me, because even if she was mildly attracted to me, I'm her former student and, as previously mentioned, completely and utterly insane! And even if she did—that wouldn't solve this, because I'm not just _sad, _Harry. My brain is terminally ill—and I'm just waiting for it to completely give in and _die_. True love's kiss can't fix that!"

Harry shook his head weakly, trying to reason through all of the hate she was spitting at him, but he couldn't see the light at the moment. It wasn't there. Despite her anger, her feet were characteristically light as she hurried up the stairs, and Harry closed his eyes as he heard the click of her bedroom door. He stiffly lowered himself into a chair, and didn't bother to conceal the tears which brimmed in his eyes. It was all over now.

* * *

Hermione shut the door to her bedroom quietly behind her, and sunk down on the bed. Her nastiness towards Harry had at least benefited her in one way; it had helped to completely ground her again.

All of that glass—she shivered to herself. The moment Minerva's name had flickered into her mind, the explosion had occurred; windows and mirrors and dishes exploding magnificently into the air. That kind of magic, and the lack of control over it, it terrified her. Somehow she continually managed to destroy things in a fit of emotion, and she was petrified that she wouldn't always be able to fix what she damaged. That she would someday hurt someone other than herself.

But Harry—Harry had done this. Harry Potter, her best friend of eighteen years, had betrayed her trust in the worst possible way, and she didn't know how she would ever come back from that. As the tears flowed down her face she realized that even if she managed to forgive him—a thought that made her nauseated at the moment—he may not forgive her. The things she had said to him—they were unforgivable lies. She had wanted to harm him, provoke him, and destroy him. She had wanted him to feel the same pain that she currently felt—and he probably had.

She wiped desperately at the tears on her face, willing them away and forcing her breaths to come at more regular intervals. Opening her eyes, she suddenly noticed the large grey owl sitting in her window.

It seemed to have been patiently waiting for her to calm down because, noting her appraisal, he flew over and gently landed on her arm. She had the fleeting thought of throwing the damned animal away from her and ignoring the letter completely—but that wouldn't have been right. Not for the owl at least. She untied the parchment from his leg, and opened it carefully.

Emerald green ink shone brightly off the page:

_Anger is honest, and it's alright to be angry. It's alright to rage and inflame, but remember to eventually forgive. Because he had all the best intentions—and I've not abandoned you yet. - Minerva_

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this bit. Thanks for all of the magnificent reviews, each and everyone really does make my day brighter and inspire me._  
_**


	5. Chapter 5

**It's been a long time coming, but here is the final installment of Unrequited... I hope you like it, and please consider reviewing. More notes at the end.**

* * *

She sat, feeling foreign and odd in the circular office, and holding herself in such a way that you would think the slightest change in demeanor would send her body crumbling to the floor. The portraits on the walls observed and whispered unabashedly, curious of the changes in the brilliant Gryffindor. Her hair was currently trying to escape the carefully sculpted confines of her bun, and her skin was a sickly pale despite the makeup she had attempted to cover her darkened eyes with. She was wilted and sad, and there was a thrumming nervous energy sparking from her and bouncing off the walls.

When the headmistress entered the room she jumped visibly, her slim fingers desperately clutching the arms of her chair as her eyes darted from wall to wall. She collected herself quickly though, impressively so, and with a cool disconnect she greeted the older witch, "Headmistress."

Minerva gave a sad and stiff smile as she sat behind her desk, "I do think, given the circumstances, you should consider calling me Minerva, Hermione."

Hermione blushed a deep red, but remained in control of herself, "I don't want you to feel obligated—my intention was never to force any sort of informality into our relationship. You don't need to do that simply to placate my nerves."

Minerva chuckled softly, "Hermione Granger, when have you ever known me to do _anything _which I didn't wish to do? Trust me, if I preferred to maintain formal, we would. Minerva, I insist."

Hermione nodded, "Minerva."

A silence descended between them, and both women seemed to glance about uneasily for a moment before Minerva finally spoke. "I must say, I was surprised that it took you so long to come see me—I had thought that you would come barreling into my office, bent on hexing me into oblivion."

Hermione smiled softly at the imagery, but shook her head. "I did think to—but my own humiliation was far too powerful at the time. And once I had gotten slightly past that, I was reasonable enough to calm my anger towards you. Harry sent you the letter—you had no control over that. Admittedly, I would have reacted similarly had I received such a letter. I am humiliated, and hurt, but I'm not angry with you, Minerva. In fact, I appreciate the efforts you made to help me."

Minerva reached nervously across the desk and took one of Hermione's hands in her own, "Hermione—you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of, do you hear me? Absolutely nothing. You have emotions, and that is human. You needn't apologize for them, not to me. Not ever."

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, "Thank you, Minerva. You've helped more than you know. I—I just wanted you to know that I'm not angry, and that I'm going to continue seeing Eleanor, despite my initial reservations."

Minerva smiled genuinely now, "That's wonderful, Hermione!"

Hermione nodded, wrapping her arms around herself again, "Indeed. I didn't want you to worry over me."

Minerva's eyebrows furrowed slightly, "Hermione, are you trying to tell me to leave you be? If you are—I beg you to just tell me now, as I'm rather horrid at dissecting subtlety."

"I'm telling you that you don't need to worry after me anymore Minerva. I know you felt obligated after seeing that dreadful letter, and after what Harry has undoubtedly told you. But I'm alright now, and you can resume your regular life."

"And what if I _want_ to continue writing to you? Further our friendship?"

Hermione snorted to herself, "Our friendship? Minerva, before that unfortunate letter, we hadn't had a friendship. We never spoke, we never wrote—there was nothing. I don't need your pity."

"It's not _pity_," Minerva hissed. "It's genuine concern, you ridiculous child. I care for you, and I wish to remain in contact."

Hermione rolled her eyes this time, "You wouldn't have any _genuine concern_ if it wasn't for that stupid letter, and I don't think—"

"Stop saying that," Minerva snapped, her temper flaring as she interrupted her former student.

"What?"

"Stop calling it a _stupid_ letter, and an _unfortunate _letter, and a _dreadful _letter. That letter was beautiful and perfect, and I won't have you bastardize it by claiming it to be some silly lapse in judgment. It may not have occurred to you, but that letter meant a great deal to me, and while it may embarrass you, it matters to me. So just _stop._"

Hermione gaped slightly, unsure of how to continue. "You—you liked it?"

"Liked it?" Minerva chuckled, "You silly witch, I loved it," Hermione tried to speak, but Minerva held up a hand to silence her. "I need to make something clear, Hermione. I—I can't be in a relationship with you, not now at least. You—you have many problems which cannot be ignored. You can't numb them with romance. That isn't a permanent solution, and I can't take the responsibility. But I can tell you that the letter which you wrote me—which you never intended to send me, is one of the most precious items I own, and I'm only glad that I was able to help you to some small degree."

Hermione's eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and she studied her hands carefully. "I had never thought to hope—I assumed that you would be equally embarrassed and unwelcoming of the words I wrote."

"Even if I had—you should still be proud of those words. They were beautifully crafted, and your words _matter_ even if your recipient doesn't realize how much. That being said, I do know how much they matter, and I'm absolutely staggered by the emotion which you've expressed. I—thank you, Hermione."

Hermione nodded briefly and stood carefully. "I should probably go, but I'll try to write more—I'll be in touch. And you, you should feel free to write as well. As often as you would like."

Minerva nodded lightly, and Hermione blushed scarlet as she turned from the Headmistress and hurried for the door. "Goodnight, Hermione."

* * *

Harry walked soundlessly into the silent room, treading carefully as not to startle the woman in the far corner. It was nearly eight o'clock at night, and the fact that she had yet to return home, gave testimony to her state-of-mind. She sat with her face completely hidden from view, riotous curls swept in front of her, only blocked from her eyes by the delicate fingers she had set against each temple.

"Hermione?" He said softly, and she sighed lightly, not opening her eyes.

"You know, I can recognize your footsteps at this point—I suppose that's real friendship, right there."

Harry smiled lightly, "I suppose. I—I just wanted to see if you were planning on coming home tonight. I know you've been working late a lot, but—"

"I haven't been working," She interrupted, sitting up and opening her eyes to look at him. Harry nodded. He knew; it wasn't really a secret. "I—I've been thinking. Thinking about us, about what I want to do, how I feel."

"Well, you're speaking to me again, so I suppose that's something," Harry said quietly, "Does that mean you've come to a decision?"

Hermione's arms came up and around her, mimicking her position from Minerva's office. She clutched desperately at herself, "I think I have—but I'm afraid. Afraid of making the wrong choice, afraid of getting hurt."

Harry sighed, and stepped towards the small sofa she kept in the room, sitting down on it carefully. "Why don't you just talk to me, tell me what you're thinking. That's what we do, right?"

Hermione nodded, tears noticeable in her eyes. "I apologize for being so emotional—it's just been a long few weeks."

"I know," Harry replied quietly. "For me too."

"Harry," she started, "I love you. You—you're my best friend. You've been my best friend for eighteen years now. And I am so angry at you—and I hate that. I hate it so much. Every time I think of you, I feel physically ill, because I feel as if you've betrayed me, cheated me. It makes me tremble, I'm so angry."

"Hermione," Harry tried to interrupt, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"Please Harry, I need to say all of this." He nodded painfully, and she took a deep breath, "But despite all of that rage—I get it. I hate myself for understanding, because it's easier to just be angry—but I do. I understand how bad I've been, and how long I've been so bad. I know that she's the person who was able to help you all those years ago, and I understand why you felt like she was the only one who could really help. I get that." Hermione paused then, wiping away the tears in her eyes as her shoulders shook slightly. Harry hated himself for causing her so much pain, for causing the tears and the anguish—he'd never been the one to make her cry. "I needed help, Harry. And even if I think you went about it wrong—you got me that help. You, and Minerva, you saved me—or at least saved me as much as you could. I'm still working on doing the rest."

"Is it helping, Hermione?" Harry interrupted frankly, "Do you really think it's helping?"

She sighed, "I don't really know—but I think that eventually it will. She's trying me on some potions and some muggle medications—working with me in therapy. I think that we'll find the answer eventually, and I suppose that's something. I'm not better—but I can see a glimmer of light now, and that matters." She shook her head slightly, forcing herself back on topic, and Harry waited carefully for her to finish. "What it comes down to, Harry, is that I am going to forgive you. I'm going to find a way to trust you again, and find a way to stop being angry with you—because I can't survive otherwise. Because I understand, and I want my best friend back. You're my family—and I can't lose that."

Harry pulled her into his arms then, holding her tightly against his chest, and she held him equally close. "I love you, Hermione—thank you for understanding."

"I'm sorry, Harry—for everything I said before. I was just angry—so angry and stupid."

"It's okay, Hermione. I'm sorry for what I did, for hurting you like I did."

"All is forgiven Harry—I love you too. We'll be okay; just don't ever do anything like that again, okay?"

He sniffled slightly, "I promise."

* * *

_My Lovely Lioness,_

_I've toiled endlessly with myself in regards to this letter, should I even send it? What would be best for you? How am I to express myself without offering false promises? In the end, I've found that I lack the self-control to hold in these particular emotions any longer, so I will write from the heart, and rely upon your brilliant mind to read the truth in my words._

_As for what I must express—it's quite simple really. Hope and affection._

_I cannot write you a letter declaring my undying love for you, because I scarcely know you as an adult. You have the benefit of having known me in one constant state of life, but I am at a severe disadvantage. You have always charmed me, Hermione, but you were also a child for so much of our time together. And yet—that has changed. You have changed. Where once was an awkward and overwhelming swot, now sits a beautifully sculpted goddess, as intelligent and good as she is lovely._

_I may not yet love you, but there is so much which I feel for you. So many parts of you which cause a flutter in my heart that I thought had died many years ago. Your smile and your laugh and the respect you hold for the written word—all of these things overwhelm me whenever they make themselves known, and they have all overwhelmed me for longer than is strictly appropriate. And as blissful as that sweeping of emotion is, it is tempered by the ache I feel in my chest whenever I consider the pain you've put yourself through, the pain I've put you though. I'm sorry that it took me so long to realize, and I'm sorry that I gave you the impression of indifference. I'm so far from indifferent, my Hermione. In truth, I'm just a frightened professor, who doesn't want to shatter her favorite of former pupils. Please understand that. I would never seek to harm you—never._

_I hope so powerfully, that the day will come when you've found true happiness in your life, when the poison ceases to trickle through you veins and when you feel the freedom that you deserve more than any other. The day when I feel no shame in taking ahold of your hand, simply because I wish to. And I do wish that, Hermione. More than most things in this world, I wish to hold your hand._

_I can offer no vows, because I can't be held responsible for you happiness—I hope you understand why. But what I can offer, however humble it may be, is my friendship and my affection. I can offer the glimmer of the emerald ink you confess to love so dearly and hopeful words of poetry meant to lift you up on your bad days. I can offer camaraderie, as I count the days until I may reach out my hand to yours._

_Remember, we must first love ourselves, before we can hope to be loved by others. I know you can do that Hermione, I believe in you._

_With all the hope I possess,_  
_Minerva _

* * *

**A/N: I want to genuinely thank all of you for reading this story, and leaving such marvelous reviews. They meant a lot to me, as this story is incredibly close to my heart. I apologize for taking so long to finish, but hopefully you enjoyed the ending.  
**

**A note regarding the ending... I'm sorry if you were hoping for a more satisfying and official pairing, but I did have reasoning behind the way I ended it. This story, while a romance, was not about Hermione and Minerva for me, it was about Hermione's fight with severe mental illness. The speech she gives Harry in chapter 4, about not just being sad, but being sick, and that true loves kiss can't fix that... that comes directly from me. I've said those literal words before. While love helps, it can't heal all, and I refuse to write a story where that is the message. There is hope, and that's what I wanted there to be. Again, I'm sorry if I disappointed any of you.**

**Finally, I would like to thank CherriiMarina for her help. While it's been several months, she read through every chapter and was a sounding board for every idea I had. She helped me keep my voice, and my message, throughout. So thank you, dear.**

**Please consider leaving me a review, and letting me know what you think. Thank you**


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